


(22. Ghosts) / Let me tell you about the ghosts of London

by Mothfluff



Series: GO-ctober Prompts 2019 [22]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, October Prompt Challenge, One Word Prompts, what - you've never had an on-going discussion with your reader while you tell the story?, you should try it's a lot of fun to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-29 08:36:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: My attempts at an October Challenge, using the original Inktober prompts for drabbles.(Each prompt will be posted as part of a series, not chapters, so I can add tags/characters/ratings/trigger warnings for each instead of the whole she-bang)Prompt 22 - Ghosts'Of course there are ghosts in London', you might say, 'the city is centuries old. Murder and disaster and chaos are written in its bones, on its stone walls, under its pavement. Of course there are ghosts.'Those are not the kind of ghosts we're talking about, though. Regular human ghosts, leftover from past horrors. Any city that's been inhabited long enough gets those. Heck, your grandma's old house might have one of those. They're not what we're talking about. They aren't the kind that would scare a demon.'Of course not', you'd complain again (you're getting a bit tetchy there, dear). 'No demon worth his banishing salt would be scared of ghosts.'Quite right, we'd have to admit, quite right. But we're also not talking about those regular demons. Maybe you should listen first instead of interrupting and complaining.





	(22. Ghosts) / Let me tell you about the ghosts of London

There are ghosts in London.

They sit in dark places. They wait around corners. Some of them float, stuck to nowhere in particular, waiting to fall on you at the hint of a word.

'Of course there are ghosts in London', you might say, 'the city is centuries old. Murder and disaster and chaos are written in its bones, on its stone walls, under its pavement. Of course there are ghosts.'

Those are not the kind of ghosts we're talking about, though. Regular human ghosts, leftover from past horrors. Any city that's been inhabited long enough gets those. Heck, your grandma's old house might have one of those. They're not what we're talking about. They aren't the kind that would scare a demon.

'Of course not', you'd complain again (you're getting a bit tetchy there, dear). 'No demon worth his banishing salt would be scared of ghosts.'

Quite right, we'd have to admit, quite right. But we're also not talking about those regular demons. Maybe you should listen first instead of interrupting and complaining.

We're not talking about regular ghosts, and we're not talking about regular demons.

We're talking about one demon in particular. One with feelings, and an imagination, and a good memory. In general, pretty good attributes to have ('not for a demon', you might interrupt again, but you're interested now, so maybe you should try not to interrupt), except mixing them together might end up with a demon who is very much haunted by ghosts.

The non-regular kind. The ones this story is about.

Because there are ghosts in London. People don't see them, because they don't remember. But he does. It's personal, you see. He remembers, and so the ghosts come to him, and only him.

They wait in St. James' Park. They see him walking along, all nice and happy ('another bad thing for a demon to be', you mumble, but a stern look will shut you up, hopefully), and they wait for him to stop, look at a pond full of ducks and swans, and then they strike.

They whisper in his ear, about broken arrangements, about wishes on pieces of paper and biting words about fraternization. They make him remember fights, and restless evenings in his apartments, and the painful hope of sleeping it all away, only to wake up to even worse feelings.

They strike him down quick and fast, and his companion won't notice until it's too late. Until the hand in his is shaking and squeezing and no kind words will help.

They make him let go and ask for a moment. He has no time to explain, and his friend gets no chance to understand. They sit in the back of his head and make him wander off, leaving behind the only person who could actually scare them away. They make him go to worse places.

'He could explain!', you join in, as if this was a conversation and not a story. He can't, we'll have to explain instead, he can't because he doesn't know how, and because he doesn't want to, because he's scared, don't you understand? When you feel broken and dark and like a horror yourself, sometimes you can't explain. Even if the person would listen. Even if they could make everything better. It's too much, and they shouldn't have to share it, because they're _your_ ghosts, not theirs.

His ghosts. Sorry. We got a bit lost in that explanation.

Anyway.

They're his ghosts, and he wants to deal with them alone, so off he goes. That's not a good idea. There are more waiting in the park.

They sit on top of a bandstand and holler down at him with trumpets. They shout all the words, again and again, rehearsed like a scene that keeps playing here, even if it ended months ago. About not being friends, about not being on any side, about not wanting any of this. Sometimes they put in new words, or maybe he does, it's all a bit mixed up in his head. Words about 'this was never a thing' and 'did you actually believe something could happen?' and 'what an idiot, thinking an angel could love you'.

The trumpets blast into his head and make his ears ring and when the angel finally comes by and puts a hand on his shoulder, it's always a bit too late. It's been a bit too late ever since it happened here, ever since the ghosts were created to hunt him.

'So, personal ghosts', you say. 'Big deal', you say, because you can be a bit insensitive sometimes, you know? 'They can just talk it out, banish the ghosts, and then the park is nice again.'

You don't understand. The ghosts in the park are only the beginning. There are far worse ones waiting elsewhere.

'Oh', you say. Yeah. Didn't expect that, hm? Now you feel like an ass, probably. Did you not expect this to get worse? 'Not really'. Well, too late. There are many more ghosts in London.

They travel with him, sometimes, because they're stuck to the car's wheels, even if it isn't burning anymore. They creep up the steering wheel, up his arms, and strike out of nowhere. Before, a nice little drive around town. After, a rushed feeling of panic, the heat of fire in his face, the manic screaming of another demon in his ear, drowning out his angel's words that tell him to pull over, calm down, get his breathing back in order. He's almost used to this by now, and so is the angel, but that doesn't make it any better.

'No, that's not better at all.' You finally feel a bit of sympathy for them, don't you? 'No, that's not safe, he shouldn't drive like that.' is your simple idea of an answer.

Well, what's he supposed to do, just stay home? Yeah? Which one? Because they've got ghosts too.

'Oh dear.' you say, and almost sound as soft for him as his angel. (Not quite. No one ever reaches that level.)

There's ghosts in his old home. They sit in a puddle on the floor, one that's been cleaned up perfectly well already, but has left a stain – not on the floor, really, but in his mind. They rattle his windows and squeak his doors and make him jump and turn around when he's alone, because that's when they get strongest. They wait for him to sleep, so he's stopped doing that, which is not good either. His old home is not good.

Are you going to ask about the new home? Hm? 'No, the way this story is going, that's probably worse.' Yeah, it's much worse. But you did ask. (You didn't? Too bad, the story has to go on.)

The ghosts in his new home are the worst of all London. They look like flames, like burning books, like ash floating through the air. They sound like sirens and yelling and begging and no answers. They blind him, make him unable to see, unable to feel – he can't sense the angel anymore, even when he's right beside him, even when he's trying to hug him and getting pushed away because he can't admit he's hurting. They are vicious little beasts, biting away at his core, and they are heinous enough to hide away sometimes, make him feel almost as if it's getting better, only to jump out when he starts to doze off.

'Nasty bastards', you say, and might we remind you to watch your language, please, this is an angel's shop we're thinking of. It's not his fault the worst ghosts live there. (Well, maybe it is a little bit, but we're not going to admit that, and the demon is definitely not ever going to think that.) Maybe we should switch to some other ghosts-

'Nononononono.' Oh, you don't want the story anymore? You don't want to hear about the ghosts of London? There are so many.

Old ones, ancient ones. Leftover from decades ago, sitting on the passenger's side of his car and yelling that he's going too fast and hiding more subtext in that one sentence than anyone could decipher (he's doing quite well at that, though, he doesn't even need help). Standing around in streets that have been the same for hundreds of years, that have seen him do horrible things, that are there to remind him every time he walks past. He's a demon, in case you forgot. He's done some pretty ugly things. They're good at reminding him, and they are equally good at putting on the guilt, blaming him for things he wasn't even responsible for – but that's the thing about memory, isn't it? When you've got a good one, and you mix it with all your bad feelings, and suddenly everything looks even more grim than it did before? You must know the feeling.

You might rather not answer that, all right. But you know it, and we know it, and he knows it very, very well. 'God', you say, because you don't know any better, but you really shouldn't bring Her up, 'is there nothing he can do? Can't the angel help him?'

Well, of course he can. It takes him a while, granted, because the goobers don't _talk,_ but he figures it out. He sees the pain, and the restless sleep, the wincing and shaking, sometimes he sees the hint of tears in his eyes. So he decides to help, because that's all he can do, and luckily that's the thing he's good at. He knows he has to take his demon away from it all, and he knows he can only do that by taking his hand and going the first step.

'What does he do?!', you ask, overeager. We were just about to tell you that. This is a story with a happy ending, after all, even if it is about ghosts. You just have to be patient.

It takes him a lot of convincing. A lot of talking, and smiling, and soft hugs and holding hands. There's a lot of arguments against his idea of help that the demon can think up. Leaving behind the city is no small feat, especially not for an angel who's made his home there for centuries. He doesn't want him to feel pressured, or to get bored, or to feel bad for him so much.

But then the angel shows him a lovely little cottage he's bought, and the garden that sits behind it, and the forest and the beach and all the other calm, quiet, empty places they can visit. And the angel tells him that he _wants_ to be there with him, that he can go back to visit London whenever he wants, but he can't live with a demon that's in so much pain, and that it's more than a fair trade-off to make him feel safe again. To live without ghosts.

'So they do that?' You're smiling now, because you think that's the end of the story. 'They go and live happily ever after in their new cottage?' Well, not quite.

'Oh come on!'  
Now don't go being annoyed again like you were at the beginning. The story is not quite over. They have forever left, after all, and they had quite a lot of time to collect ghosts before this.

There will always be ghosts. They're riding on his coat tails (although technically, he doesn't have those anymore, the angel in his old-fashioned outfit has), and they'll go with him wherever he goes. But they are tiny – they have to be, to cling on – and don't have much fighting power to come up, not when he's sitting in front of a fireplace with a mug of cocoa in his hand and an angel in his lap reading good stories to him. Not when he's working in the garden, when he knows he's being watched through loving eyes that are making ice cold lemonade for him in the kitchen. And even if they manage to climb all the way up, from his coat tails to his head, their whispers in his ears are far, far more quiet than the angel's soft whispers as they go to sleep in their comfy, duvet-covered bed.

And that's how the story ends, because it doesn't. It only gets better.


End file.
